"You know," said Lord Vignoles to Zimmermann, the famous littérateur of the Ghetto, "she is proud of Yankee smartness. Only natural." And his light blue eyes followed his wife's pretty figure as she flitted hospitably amongst her guests. Admiration beamed through his monocle.
"Lady Vignoles is a staunch American," agreed the novelist. "I gather that your opinion of that nation differs from hers?"
"Well, you know," explained his host, "I don't seriously contend—that is, when Sheila is about—I don't contend that their methods aren't smart. But it seems to me that their smartness is all—just—well, d'you see what I mean? Look at these Pinkerton fellows!"
"Those who you were telling me called upon you this morning?"
"Yes. They came over with Oppner to look for this Séverac Bablon."
"What is your contention?"
"Well," said Vignoles, rather flustered at being thus pinned to the point, "I mean to say—they haven't caught him!"
"Neither has Scotland Yard!"
"No, by Jove, you're right! Scotland Yard hasn't!"
"Do you think it likely that Scotland Yard will?" asked the other.